


The Dragon of the North

by candiedrobot



Series: The Dragon of the North [1]
Category: Dracula Untold (2014), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (becoming a vampire isn't a walk in the park y'know), 4th Age of Middle Earth, Angst, Bard has a lot of sad vampire feelings, Bard is a bamf, Bard's fangs, Barduil Big Bang 2015, Bloodplay, Crossover, Future Fic, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mysterious New Evil, Thranduil's a mama bird, first part of a series, graphic smut, happy/hopeful ending, lots of foreshadowing, pretty severe Bard whump in the beginning, vampire!AU, with also a lot of sad feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedrobot/pseuds/candiedrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the Battle of the Five Armies, the forces of the enemy returned to Dol Guldur and threatened the new-found peace of the peoples of Rhovannion.  In the chaos of battle, Bard, King of Dale and dearest friend of the Elvenking, was lost.  Since then, Thranduil has watched the world change around him.  He witnessed the final defeat of the Sauron, watched Bard's children grow and fade, and said goodbye to his only son as he sailed away to the Undying Lands. </p><p>A rumour grows of a great red serpent, come down from the North and the Fourth Age, with the destruction of the One Ring, has begun. It is an age of men; men who have grown over-confident and too accustomed to living without threat of darkness, men who do not remember what it is to be frightened of anything but their own shadow.  They have forgotten what can grow in the darkness, so used to the light.  They have forgotten evil.  But evil has not forgotten them.</p><p>~*~</p><p>Dracula Untold crossover with angsty vampire Bard and tantrum throwing mama bird Thranduil.  Plenty of angst but lots of fluff and romance as well.  Also bitey vampire porn, which is what I know you're all really here for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the Barduil Big Bang! This is going to be part of a series, so be on the lookout for some foreshadowing for later plot elements. This first part sets the scene for a much larger epic, so if you like it, don't forget to subscribe to the series! I've had an absolute blast participating in the Big Bang this year, and I know I wouldn't have been able to get this off the ground without a tangible goal like this, so I'm really very glad I participated.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's helped me, beta'd for me and generally listened to me bitch about this thing for the last two months, and a really big shoutout to [Thunder28](http://thunder28.tumblr.com) for creating such lovely artwork for my story!! Thank you so much, it's been a pleasure working with you!
> 
> For interested parties, I have created a playlist on Spotify for this work, which can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/1263872089/playlist/2p03EiFdwM7HuI34bxUuZh).  
> You can also find me on Tumblr under [blackstoneirregular](http://blackstoneirregular.tumblr.com). Feel free to come bother me about literally anything.
> 
> Thanks and happy reading!

It had been three hundred years to the day since Bard the Bowman, Dragon-Slayer, Elf-Friend and once King of Dale, had vanished in the battle of Dol Guldur. Thranduil had lost much waging war on that forsaken place in the days and years since the return of Sauron’s forces, but that first siege… It was a day carved into his memory that could not be eroded or wiped clean, no matter how badly he wished he could forget it.

Bard had ruled Dale in peace for ten years before the Nazgûl returned to the fortress. Three in number, they brought with them an army of orcs and other foul beasts to regain their stronghold in the wake of their master’s departure. They took back Dol Guldur, and the Shadow over Mirkwood became fouler and began to creep towards Dale and the Lonely Mountain. In the winter of the year 2951 of the Third Age, Thranduil, Bard, and King Dain Under the Mountain launched an offensive strike on the stronghold, determined to overthrow it and regain the peace they had become accustomed to in the time since the Battle of the Five Armies.

But peace had made the men of Dale less wary and more reckless, and in the chaos of battle, they lost their leader. It wasn’t until Thranduil heard Bain, son of Bard, commanding his soldiers to fall back, that he realised something was terribly wrong.

Bain fell in step with Thranduil, fighting off the hoards of orc side by side, and his voice rose over the cacophony of battle, “Have you seen my father? I cannot find him! No one can find him! Where has he gone??” His voice broke even as his sword fell, and Thranduil saw too clearly the panic in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell entirely too fast, even for a man (for he was certainly that by now), at war.

Thranduil cleared a path around them and spared a moment to lock eyes with Bain. “I have not seen Bard in a long while now, he is not with his men?”

Bain shook his head wildly. “He’s gone. Vanished.”

Thranduil cursed under his breath, and then a Nazgûl was upon them, and it took all their strength, focus, and a fair deal of Thranduil’s magic to simply fight the fell king back. But in his wake was another, and another battalion of orcs came charging from some dark crack in the ground, and Thranduil’s heart sank even as he called to his general, voice strong and commanding, “Recall your forces! We leave!”

Bain gaped at him, obviously betrayed, even as the elvish war horn sounded loud and deep behind them. “You cannot call back your forces now! Da’s still in there!”

“Look around you!” Thranduil was loathe to shout at Bard’s son. He was fond of the boy, but if he had to play the villain to save the boy’s life, he was willing to endure his hatred. “Do you see your da? We are about to be overrun! Your people and mine alike will all die if we linger here! The strength of a king lies not only in knowing when to fight, but in knowing when to run- to live another day. Call back your men, Bain!” The dwarves were already retreating as well, on the heels of the elves. They couldn’t stay here any longer. The Nazgûl would be upon them again soon.

Bain looked lost and angry; like he was suddenly that twelve year old boy in the midst of dragonfire and ruin again, looking for his lost father, hoping he was alive. Thranduil had not met him then, not yet, but he could see it clearly in the young man’s face, at the thought of leaving his father to unknown fates. Then a man screamed in agony as he was torn down by an orc blade to Bain’s right, and he steeled over in a moment, reaching for his own horn and blowing a long note into the turmoil. “Retreat!” he called, mounting his horse. “Men of Dale, fall back!”

Thranduil was beside him in a moment, and together they fled the battle, both with heavy hearts and a worry that filled their guts like stones.

Bain became King of Dale soon after.

 

And after that, for Thranduil, at least, time drifted by as it always has. It was nearly seventy years from that day until the day the walls of Dol Guldur came, finally, crashing down. The Fellowship of the Ring was already well on their way to destroy the Ring of Power, and Legolas with them. Thranduil hadn’t allowed himself to feel much of anything since Bard was lost. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there could have been something real between the bowman and himself. He had felt that way since the day he met the man, standing proud and strong against the ruins of Dale, in the wake of Smaug. But Thranduil had guarded his heart too well and for too long, and he let ten years pass without acting on his desires, until  that  one day, it was too late.

And now Legolas was facing the most dangerous of enemies, and so far from home; and Thranduil’s heart ached all over again, as if he might lose his only son as well. He could not bear it. He had already lost so much. Bard’s children had felt nearly like his own for the brief while he could keep them well, but time was forever his enemy as well as his friend, and eventually they passed like all mortals must. Sigrid, at the least, had sailed for the Undying Lands with a small number of his people, her elven husband included. Bain had been lost to battle, slain protecting the city of Dale, his sisters, and indeed Thranduil himself. He was twenty-seven, and had become a good man and a good friend. It was a noble, if not bitter, passing. Tilda had simply vanished, as her father had, the very same year she was crowned the first queen of Dale. Bard’s bloodline had been broken, at least in the Eastern Realm, and Dale became a democratic state, electing a leader who was, if not as fair and wise as the line of Bard, at least an honourable man.

That was all hundreds of years ago, now.

The age of Elves was past. The Fourth Age, with the destruction of the One Ring, had begun, and it was an age of men; men who had grown over-confident and too accustomed to living without threat of darkness, men who did not remember what it was to be frightened of anything but their own shadow. They had forgotten what could grow in the darkness, so used to the light. They had forgotten evil. But evil had not forgotten them.


	2. Chapter 2

The air was heavy with the miasma of death. Bard could hear the shouts of his men, the bone-chilling shrieks of orcs, the hiss and clatter of spiders and the clang of metal, though it faded in and out in a fuzzy din. The bitter taste of bile and blood sat heavy in his mouth, his vision swam. He was fairly sure his rib was cracked in at least two places, and his side bled heavily from a stab wound that was not made by a mortal blade.

Bard had never fought a wraith before. He had heard stories of the Nazgûl, horrible stories, told to keep him out of trouble and in his bed at night as a young boy, but the legends could not compare to the reality. There was a sickness upon their blades, a malice in their souls that infected Bard and crept, cold and oozing through his veins. His skin perspired and he felt he could not draw a full enough breath. His legs would not hold him, nor could he move them at all through the pain that consumed him. He tried to call for Bain but his tongue would not form the words.

Still the battle raged around him. Bard cursed his weakness; he was easy prey like this. He was a king, he could not afford to die here. He was a father.

Through the haze of his blurred vision and the cloying mist that pooled and crept across the stone and rubble and the piles of bodies all around him, he saw a flash of silver from across the turret, the length of a glittering cloak.

_Thranduil._

He tried again to call out, but managed little more than a rasp, his lungs rattling and shrieking at him, and his vision dimmed again. He coughed up a spatter of red and dark spots danced before his eyes. He reached out with a trembling hand, but then he heard it- the resounding call of the horns that signalled retreat, first from the elves, then the dwarves, and then, after a long beat, from Bain and his men.

Bard closed his eyes. This was it, then. The end of the Dragon-Slayer. He did not begrudge them for leaving. He was nearing fifty. It was as long a life as any man could hope for, and his daughters were strong women now, his son a great leader. They would be alright. They had Thranduil and he would look after them, or at least he hoped it would be so.

Bard’s eyes grew too heavy, his breath too pained, and he slipped from consciousness, into what he hoped would be peace.

 

He did not wake to find peace. He woke to pain, searing through his mind and body, his back a wet slide along hard stone and jagged edges. He gasped, and the jolt of breath in his broken ribs sent him into paroxysms, twisting in the grip of whatever dragged him down into the earth and sending more pain, wild and violent, coursing through him. He made a despairing sound, something of a groan and a wheezing cough, all wrapped into a sob that wracked his body and nearly tore him from consciousness once again.

There was malicious laughter all around him, a chitter of excited voices and the stomp of heavy armour as what could only be a horde of orc accompanied him on his descent. There was shadow surrounding them, and Bard’s vision was dim anyways, his eyes clouded with blood and swimming in haze. They were dragging him into the depths of Dol Guldur.

[ ](http://s95.photobucket.com/user/kyoismyantidrug/media/tumblr_inline_nmci5mhMFD1r9i0bz_500_zpsufpuzefk.jpg.html)

He felt each pebble and stone, each crack in the earth and every discarded bit of metal as it tore across his back, catching in the tears of his chainmail and scraping him bloody. He tried to hold his head up but he could feel his hair already matted around blood and debris.

The orcs laughed and jeered.

“Looks like the Dragon-Slayer’s finally up and at ‘em!” one said mockingly.

“I dunno,” said another, his voice a cloying, grating thing, “I dun’ think he’s going to be getting up again anytime soon, do you?”

They erupted in wild laughter again. Bard tried to scramble for purchase, to grab hold of something, anything, but the orc dragging him just yanked his legs harder, and Bard’s head bounced back and thudded against stone. His breath left him and his vision dimmed threateningly again.

“Looks like there’s still some life in his royal highness yet, don’t it lads!” The orcs snickered. “I never tasted royal blood before, have you lot? What you think he tastes like? Think he’s tender or all rough and chewy?”

They must have reached their destination, for Bard found himself roughly tossed to the side, his back hitting a hard wall and his side searing with pain as he slumped in a heap. He hissed, tried to breathe, and looked up, taking in his surroundings and trying to determine the wisest choice of action. His mind raced as he played out scenario after scenario in his head. There were perhaps thirty orcs in the dim of the cavernous hall, all still in battle armour and armed to the teeth. They were too far underground and he was too injured to fight his way through them. He wasn’t even sure if he could stand, at this point. It would likely be agony to try, but he thought maybe, just maybe, if he could outwit them, he could make it back up to the light. Maybe his army wasn’t so far by now, maybe there would still be scouts nearby. Maybe Thranduil would sense he was alive and come back for him…

But first he would have to escape the gruesome fate of becoming orc-food, if indeed he stood any chance at all. He remembered, as the orcs poked and prodded at him and joked about what he might taste like, a story that Bilbo Baggins, the brave Halfling from the Battle of the Five Armies, had told him and his children all those years ago.

It was the story of how he outwitted a group of trolls in a very similar situation, when the dwarves were facing down their own death as dinner for the beasts.

Bard laughed, catching the orc closest to him off-guard, as it withdrew its grubby fingers and gawked at him, uneasy and surprised. Bard winced at the way his lungs trembled and pushed words from them, shaping weak breath around a voice that sounded far more courageous than he felt. “You would eat the flesh of one who has fought a dragon? Are you mad?” he choked on his laughter, but as he tried to collect his voice again, he glanced at the orcs and found that his words had stirred confusion amongst them.

“Wot’s he talking about?”

“What’s wrong with his flesh?”

The one who had been dragging him stepped forward and snarled, regarding Bard with a fierce contempt. “Ignore the wretch. He just don’t want to get eaten is all. Tricks and lies.” He spat on the ground next to Bard and he felt a jolt of icy fear as the creature pulled out a long, wicked looking blade. “But we’re gonna skin ‘im anyways, aren’t we lads?” There was scattered jeering among the crowd, but some of them still looked uneasy.

Bard drew his courage and his breath and pushed forward. This was his only chance. He laced venom with his voice and hissed up at the orcs, “Fine, eat me, do what you will! But I’m taking you all with me! Have you never heard of Dragon Sickness? None who face the wrath of a serpent are free of it! It is in my veins, and soon it will course through yours as well! I hope it makes you suffer as I have. It will be my curse upon you all!”

His voice gave out at the end, and he fell into a fit of wheezing, wet coughs. Several of the orcs stepped warily back. They turned to each other and whispered,

“Is it true?”

“I never heard the King of Dale had Dragon Sickness!”

“Is that even a thing?? I ain’t never heard of it-”

“Aye, it is! Thorin Oakenshield had it! It’s true!”

“This is just a ruse.”

“How do you know, Llugg? What if he does have it! What if it’s contagious! I’m not eating that filth!”

Bard closed his eyes. _It was working. Bless the Halfling and bless the stupidity of orcs._

There was a loud snarl above him, and Llugg, the apparent leader and the only one who seemed to truly doubt his words, pushed past the crowd and stared down at him, wrath and disgust written across his face. “Fine, you sniveling maggots! We won’t eat the human!” Before Bard could as much as sigh in relief, however, a wicked grin crept over the orc’s features. “I have a better idea.”

Bard nearly screamed as he found himself dragged again, this time by his hair, down an even darker, danker corridor. His legs scrambled to find purchase and take the strain off his head, and his side and his ribs screamed bloody murder at him. The rest of the orcs seemed to recognise the path they were taking, and Bard imagined, through the din of his quickly fading consciousness, that it could be nowhere good, if their chittering and snickering was anything to judge by.

Llugg looked down and sneered at him. “We might not be willing to risk catching your supposed ‘dragon sickness,’ but I know someone who won’t have the same reservations…” As his consciousness slipped from him once again, he caught the orc’s echoing laugh and his final words,

“I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

 

 

Bard woke with a start, gasping and not liking the way his lungs rattled around the breath he took. He was covered in cold sweat, his body fevered and shaking, no doubt from the poisonous witch-craft of the Nazgûl blade that had pierced him. He did not know how much time had passed since the battle had ended, or even how he was still alive. He had been ready for death, when he had lain, broken, on the battlefield, hidden by the bloody corpses of spiders and orcs and surrounded by the screams of his men and his allies.

He had fought so hard and toiled for so long to build a future for the city of Dale. The agreement to go to war with Dol Guldur had not been an easy one, but in the end it was inevitable. Even Thranduil had seen that. There could be no future for their peoples if they did not deal with this threat. He had realised that when the orcs dragged him underground, he knew that if he did not find a way back to his people, they would be lost, and Bain would be burdened with a throne he was not yet ready for. It was asking too much of him, to grow up so fast, to bear the weight of a kingdom.

He had been ready to die, but now he drew each breath with consternation; every time he opened his eyes it was a declaration of intent, a will to live, to get back to his children, his home.

There was laughter in the dark.

Bard pulled himself up on an arm, bracing his weight even though he trembled to do it. “Who’s there?” he called.

It was too dark to see. The shadows clung to every rock, filled every crevice and the only sound now was the steady _plink, plink_ of water dripping and echoing against stone. He was in a cave, he could tell that much, but knew nothing else. The words of the orc came back to ghost across his mind like wretched smoke, _I hope you’re not afraid of the dark._

The voice laughed again. A man, it seemed to belong to, melodious and low, like a gentle wave caressing the shore. It soothed even as it frightened him.

“Where are you?” he coughed raggedly and heard the sick _splat_ of blood hit the floor, he tasted it in his mouth.

“Save your strength, Dragon-Slayer. I’m afraid you’ll need it.” The voice was closer now, behind him. He whirled around, trying to find the source of it in the darkness.

“Who are you?” he asked again, his voice wet and broken.

A gentle breeze slipped through his hair, but surely, that couldn’t be right… The air was too still down here. His hand shot out and grazed something that was too cold to be the skin of a mortal, or even an elf. The laughter came again, like the chiming of a bell.

“Who I am is not important,” it said. “I am far more interested in who _you_ are, Bard of Dale.”

Bard’s brow creased. His arm trembled beneath him. “How do you know my name?”

“I know more than your name, Dragon-Slayer, elf-friend. The simple bargeman who shot down the great dragon and became king, he who has held the Heart of the Mountain, ally of both Mirkwood and Erebor…” The voice chuckled low, under its breath. “I hear much here under the earth. Even though I cannot leave, I hear the miserable orcs whisper, I hear the elves sing, and I hear the people of Esgaroth chant your name, like you are a champion sent by the forces of good to restore them to glory.”

Bard thought he could make out the faint outline of a figure in front of him, moving closer. He felt around on the ground, fingers tracing over the outline of rock and debris. If only he could find a sword, or a stone heavy or sharp enough… He could take the thing with the beautiful voice by surprise, subdue it and find a way out of here, for he had no doubt it would kill him, if he let it.

“They say you are a noble man,” the voice continued, advancing further. “I wonder if it is true?” Bard’s fingers found a particularly smooth stone, bigger than the rest and round, the size of his head, perhaps. It might be heavy enough to knock the creature out cold, if he could only get a proper grip on it. He felt lower and found a hole in the stone, and then his thumb found another hole inches away. He felt his fever sweat intensify as dread crept over him, realisation gnawing and biting at him. He gagged, tracing over the triangular dip where a nose once resided and the bumps and sharp points of teeth.

These were not rocks and clutter he was laying on, _they were bones._

“Tell me, Bard the Dragon-Slayer,” the voice whispered, wrapping around him like silk. The world tilted and swam around him, and he thought he could make out a pearly cheshire grin on the face of the shadow, “Are you a noble man…?”

Bard lashed out, quick and vicious, with a shout of rage, swinging the skull forward as hard as he could to smash the creature- but he was not fast enough and a cold hand shot forth and gripped his wrist with a strength that did not belong to any monster that he knew, other than perhaps the dragon itself. He felt his bones creak and snap with a loud _crack!_ And he yelled as the skull clattered to the floor.

The creature snarled and lifted him into the air, its other hand at his throat as it rushed him backwards until his back hit the wall with a force that knocked the air out of him. He groaned, low and piteously, trying to bite back the pain though it screamed at him through every nerve. His wrist smacked against the wall as well and the being held it there, sneering at him.

“You think you have power over me, human? You think you can hurt me? You, who are broken and so close to death I can taste in on your breath, smell it in your blood, hear it in your weak, trembling pulse…?” It laughed again and it was so close now, Bard could finally see its face. He gasped.

Its features were a perfect mix of beautiful beyond measure and horrifically ugly. Its mouth was twisted in cruel amusement, its eyes crinkled and leering, the hard lines of its face framed with hair that was long as any elf’s- longer, perhaps, and dark as pitch though it was dank and limp, pulled down by the weight of dirt and grime. The fingers at his wrist were gnarled and old, with yellowed nails that twisted into sharp points and pressed against his skin. Bard choked around a breath and the hand at his throat held him tighter.

“I am as old as evil itself, and I could tear the flesh from your bones if I wished, but you think you can best me with old bones and the element of surprise?” He laughed cruelly. “You are as brave as they say then, and perhaps as stupid.”

Bard scrambled at the fingers holding his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

The creature regarded him for a moment with calculating eyes before it seemed to reach some kind of conclusion and smiled, fingers loosening and allowing Bard’s feet to touch the bone-littered ground once again. He slipped and stumbled as he drew lung-full after lung-full of air, even though it was agony to do so. The fingers at his throat turned from punishing to caressing and the face drew closer, whispering in his ear, “Yes, I think you will be my champion too, Bard the Just. You will be my Redeemer and free me from this prison.” His voice was soft as water again, an ocean-song against his ear.

“I can free you as well,” it whispered, “from the prison of death. For without what I can give you, you will die here, and become just another set of bones on this floor, and your children will never look upon their father again; your people will be kingless.”

Bard’s eye widened, his breath shook.

“You… can heal me?”

The creature laughed. “Indeed. That and so much more.” Cold fingers turned his head, and Bard could feel warm breath against his skin, lips that felt like stone traced the line of his throat. “I can give you life everlasting, the strength of a thousand men, dominion over the creatures that creep and whisper in the night. I can give you _life.”_

Bard trembled against his captor. It sounded too good to be true, which no doubt meant it was. “At what price,” he whispered.

The thing stepped back and released him suddenly, and Bard slumped to the floor, his wrist throbbing and his side an inferno of pain. “My freedom,” he said, cutting and fierce. “And a promise to come to my aid when the day comes that I should call on you.”

It was Bard’s turn to laugh. “You are a servant of the Dark One. Mithrandir told us that the Necromancer resided here, the one who burned brighter than a balrog and darker than the deepest abyss. I would not pledge my service to any who would do his bidding, even at the cost of my own life. Away with you and leave me to die here, if that is what I must do to preserve my honour.”

He expected many things; he expected wrath, he expected to be attacked, to be killed for his insubordination, but he did not expect the pleased smile that overtook the being’s features, turning them soft and almost beautiful in the dim light of the cave. “Perfect,” he said. “You are indeed a noble man. Perhaps it will comfort you to know that I am no friend to Sauron, Servant of Shadow. It was he who made this cave my prison and my tomb, and I would see him as ashes on the wind. Nay, I serve none but myself, little dragon-killer. I assure you, you are not pledging yourself to the Enemy.”

Bard cast wary eyes on his foe. He could imagine, for a moment, that its hair was not covered in the scum of the earth, that instead it was full and silken, tumbling around broad shoulders that were less frail-looking and more proud. He could see the light of stars on the pale face and see oceans in his eyes. If this man had truly been tormented and kept prisoner here by the Dark One, then perhaps he was no foe at all. And if he could truly allow him the strength to flee this place, to hold his children close and lead his people to victory, then how could he deny the once-fair being?

The man smiled, that soft, comforting smile again, and held out a hand, an offering. ‘ _The choice is yours,’_ came a voice in his head that he was not certain to be his own. ‘ _Will you die here? Or will you choose life?’_

Bard reached a trembling hand up, hesitated for a moment, and then placed it in the cool palm of the creature. “Life,” he breathed.

The smile turned feral and for a horrible moment Bard imagined he was looking into the face of a demon, and then that demon was upon him. He saw the gleam of too-long fangs in the instant before they were crushed against his throat and his voice gurgled around a shout. Pain shot through him in even heavier bursts, through his very veins as teeth broke his skin and sank into his neck, his hot blood rushing into the mouth that waited and devoured. This was no fair creature, it never had been. It was all an illusion to lure Bard into complacency, to his death.

“Liar,” he gasped.

He tried to grasp at the tatters and rags that clothed the monster, to tear at him with his nails, and rage against him with fists, but the thing was swallowing his blood as fast as his veins pumped it up through the gash in his throat, and soon Bard felt his strength leaving him entirely. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and the world fell away leaving him dizzy and distant from it all, like he was being borne gently upwards and away from his body. He had lost too much blood already, and it didn’t take very long for his arms to slip uselessly from their struggle, falling limp to his sides. He breathed shallow and slow and hardly felt it when the creature slipped its fangs from his throat and left him entirely, becoming soft and distant, like mist on the horizon.

He blinked, and a second could have passed, or perhaps it was an hour, but when he opened his eyes again, there he was, the blood-drinker with his cherry lips and soft smile again. He held in his hand a pale, shallow bowl, filled to the brim with red, and set it against Bard’s lips. ‘ _Drink,’_ came the voice in his mind again. ‘ _I have not deceived you, though for all the world, I know it must seem so. Drink, my little dragonking, and find your death, and in turn your life.”_

Bard opened his mouth, unsure whether it was to drink the blood that was offered him, or to curse the monster who offered it, but the liquid filled his mouth besides, and he swallowed on impulse, choking as it went down the wrong way. He swallowed more to clear his throat, and though he felt the torn flesh where the creature had drunk from his veins, the pain began to fade. A fire zinged through him, down into his belly and then it spread, to every fibre of his being, making his fingers tingle and his tongue thirst for more. He reached forward with a strength he thought lost and grabbed the bowl from the hands that held it, tilting it and draining it dry, unconcerned for the mess it made as it sloshed around his mouth and trickled down his chin.

He gasped at the warmth that robbed him of pain and turned astonished eyes to the smiling creature, before a sudden lurch in his gut had him doubling over. The fire turned from warm to searing hot, rising into his veins and making his vision turn to white. He gasped again, tried to shout, but the fire in his blood took his breath away and his organs felt as though they were failing him all at once. He writhed on the floor, scattering bones as he curled in on himself and whimpered. He hardly noticed the receding footfalls of the blood-drinker, or the way its laughter had once again turned cruel and malicious, victorious. The pain climbed higher and higher, and the fire burned brighter until at last, he could stand it no more, and he slipped again into darkness, this time, he imagined, for the last.

 

Bard was to find that life was full of surprises, and he was, surprisingly, full of life.

He lie, still, on a pile of bones in the dark cave, but as he opened his eyes, he found that the dark was not so much a cloak shrouding everything in a dim fog as he remembered. He blinked up at his surroundings and found that he could see them all clearly as if it were day. The floor was indeed made of bones, piled high and scattered as far as the eye could see, and the walls were stained dark and carved deeply with a language he did not understand. He looked down and found the bowl he had drank from, to discover that it was no bowl at all, but the broken disc of the skull he had brandished at his enemy earlier.

And speaking of his enemy…

The creature was nowhere to be found. He could hear the heavy thudding footfalls of orcs on the earth above him, and the dripping _plink_ of water was thunder in his ears, but the terrible, fair man was gone.

He stood on cautious legs, but they did not tremble or give out as he expected them to. In fact, he could feel no weakness or pain whatsoever. It was as if he had never fallen in battle, never been stabbed by a Morgul blade or felt the strange pain of sharp teeth in his throat, his blood spilling out of him in torrents.

He breathed heavily in the close, stale air, and heard it as if it was the scream of another. He held up his hands in wonder, and they gleamed pale in the light that was not there.

He whipped around at the gurgling, wet noise he heard suddenly and tilted his head, trying to find the source. It seemed to be coming from above. He spotted a crack in the wall, high above, but not so high that he could not climb to it, now that there was only strength to be found in him, and no longer any pain.

He made the climb in moments, his feet finding purchase where they should not have easily done so, and the light from the burning torches nearly blinding him as he stepped surely into a hall. There was carnage surrounding him.

The orcs who had carried him into the earth, all thirty of them, were lying slain on the ground, thick dark blood in pools around them. He smelled it suddenly, and it set his mouth to watering in a strange way, as if he thirsted for it. His stomach turned as he realised that was exactly what he was experiencing.

The gurgling sound came again and he pushed aside his strange new thirst and turned to the source of it, the orc Llugg, who was still alive, but barely. He gave a strangled moan as Bard turned to pierce him with a cold stare. Blood welled in Llugg’s mouth, and from this distance even, Bard could see the gnarled, torn mess of his throat. The orc made a sound that must have been words, or an attempt at them, and bard tilted his head, trying to make them out.

“Wha….” The blood bubbled in his mouth and he spat it out, eyes wide and fearful as he watched Bard. “What have you done…”

Bard stepped swiftly over to him and, in one smooth motion reached down and snapped his neck. Llugg lay unmoving now at his feet, and Bard felt his stomach lurch again at the ease with which the orc’s bones broke beneath his fingers.

He had to get out of here. Had to see his family.

A wild panic took hold of Bard’s heart. He imagined he could feel it pounding through his chest, but it was only a trick of his mind, for when he focused on it, he couldn’t feel it beat at all.

He shot out of the caves like a bat, and didn’t pause to survey the battle-field or the bodies that littered Dol Guldur like the bones in the blood-drinker’s bower.

His feet flew across the miles, through the shadow of Mirkwood, finding that nothing stood truly before him, not tree, or beast, or even the spiders that fled his path in fear. The road his army had taken was east, and outside the suffocating blanket of forest, but some inner compass told him that the way he made was faster, more direct. It seemed, in fact, that hardly any time had passed before he was crossing the Old Forest Path, and then the Mountains of Mirkwood, and then he was out of the forest and into the night, where he raced along the River Running towards Dale, not stopping to marvel at the beauty of the moon upon the placid water, or the way the mist that hung over the ruins of Laketown caught the light of the stars.

Dale was a welcome relief. His family was there, in the halls of his ancestors, and he made his way there, unseen under the blanket of night and unheard in the stillness. Bain’s horse was still gone, he observed, as he passed the stables, and he wondered that he should arrive home before his army. His boots made no sound when he slipped into his home like a burglar in the night. He closed the door softly and sighed. He would check on Tilda first. Sigrid was a woman by now and lived with her elven husband in a separate wing of the palace. He would be returning soon, he knew, along with Bain and the rest of the warriors of Dale. Perhaps Thranduil’s army would stop for the night as well, before continuing on to Mirkwood. And he would be here to smile disarmingly at the Elvenking, who no doubt thought him dead, and even though they had been forced to retreat, perhaps there would be a celebration anyway, for all those that still lived, with wine and family, and the solid, unwavering friendship of Thranduil at his side. Perhaps he would finally admit to more than friendship, even. Yes, that is what he would do indeed. Life had proved to be fleeting and uncertain after all, and he had been granted a second chance at it.

He refused to dwell on the price.

Tilda had never made it to bed that night, it appeared. Bard spied her, asleep in the sitting room with a misshapen lump of dyed wool in her lap where she sat before the dying fire, no doubt waiting for her father and brother to return home. He smiled fondly. He couldn’t make out what she was knitting- likely a lopsided hat by the looks of it. Tilda had never really mastered the art, unlike her sister who had tried, time and again to teach her to no avail.

A thin blanket lay at her feet, and Bard stepped quietly over and pulled it up, over her lap and around her shoulders. Her low, distinct snoring ceased immediately and she mumbled something incoherent, shifting and sighing as her eyes fluttered open.

Bard smiled down at her, thinking, for but a moment, that everything would be alright. He was home again, and his family would see him through whatever it was that was happening to him, they would understand, and all would be well… Everything would be…

Tilda opened her eyes fully and Bard heard her heartbeat suddenly thunder, her eyes widened impossibly as she looked upon him and her breath hitched. He could smell her fear.

“Tilda,” he croaked, fear rising within him as well. Did she not recognise him? Had he been changed to look upon as well? He reached out with one pale hand, and saw as she did the blood that stained it, lining the creases of his fingers like rust.

Tilda opened her mouth and screamed.

Bard stumbled back, and heard the clatter and shouting of guards from a distance. Tilda scrambled backwards in the chair and screamed again, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to get away from him.

Bard turned and ran.

He ran as fast as his legs would take him, with no clear direction but the driving knowledge that he had to be away from her, for her own sake. She couldn’t see him, she could only see the monster. He stopped once he could no longer hear her trembling, desperate sobs, the low murmur of guards who had not seen him flee, who would search the palace but find nothing and would think she had simply awoken from a nightmare that held her in its vicious thrall and chased her into wakefulness.

He breathed heavy, not from exhaustion, but from panic and sorrow, all of his dreams for a happy future dashed, within that single, awful moment. He knew he couldn’t stay here. Not now. He could never show his face to Tilda, or Sigrid or Bain, or the people of Dale or the Elvenking, his dearest friend. He had to leave.

He looked wildly about, realising he had fled into the armoury, and caught a glimpse of his face in the reflection on a suit of armour. Blood was caked and stained around his mouth and all down his chin. His neck was a mess of it as well, and his hair was matted and lank, even torn in places from where he was dragged by the orc. His eyes were wild and he looked every bit the monster Tilda had seen. He barely recognised himself.

A sob wrenched its way through him and he fell to his knees, holding his face in his hands. _Dragonking,_ the blood-drinker had called him, _a monster._

He _was_ a monster, as terrible as the dragon he had fought in Laketown, as wicked and frightening.

He looked up and his eyes fell upon a vaulted chest, the place where he had, locked away, the last remaining trace of Smaug, the dragon. His eyes widened as he stood and faced it fully, trembling hands reaching for the lock.

It had been made for him when the dragon fell, after the battle, but it had haunted him and he found he could never truly look upon it without trembling.

_Monstrous,_ he had called it, and locked it away, for it never to find use on a battlefield.

But _he_ was a monster as well, and now it called to him. He had lied to the orcs about dragon-sickness, but now he wondered if there was some hidden truth to what he had said. He would wrap himself in it like a cloak, arm himself with the scales of the serpent, and become like a dragon himself. He would hide away and destroy anything that came too close. He would build a kingdom of one in the vast wasteland of the North where he would dwell as long as this curse laid upon him, or until death claimed him.

As he fled Dale, the red scales of Smaug’s armour heavy and strangely comforting against his chest, he lamented the life he must leave behind, he raged and roared for the loss he must endure as the earth fell away and he found himself borne upon the wind like a true dragon.

Bard, King of Dale, died upon the breeze that night as the dragon took flight.


	3. Chapter 3

The walls of Thranduil’s hall in Greenwood the Great ran red, shards of glass thick and jagged where they lay scattered against the floor. An exasperated sigh echoed in the vastness of the Elvenking’s throne room and Thranduil snarled to hear it, turning on his heel to glare at his general.

“That was the last of the Dorwinion, you know, my lord. What a waste.”

Thranduil was like smoke billowing down the long stair, each step sharp and purposeful as he advanced until he was nose to nose with the elf. “Do not speak of waste, Feren, like my people are not out there dying, every cursed day while this new evil hides in the shadows like a coward! I have had enough of this!”

To his credit, Feren did not flinch. Instead, he regarded Thranduil with steady, unwavering eyes, raised a brow in challenge. “What would you do, my king? You have already withdrawn our people so they are nearly sealed in these halls, like we have not been for hundreds of years. What else can be done?”

Thranduil stepped back, turned away and rubbed at his creased brow. He fell in a heap at the foot of the steps leading up to his throne. Feren would have made for him in concern, for he was surely drunk on the same wine he had smashed so carelessly against the wall, but Thranduil looked for all intent like he had orchestrated his own collapse, sitting in an elegant heap of silver and green robes, one arm thrown over the steps above him and the other cradling his face. Feren’s eyes caught on the delicate embroidery on Thranduil’s glittering cloak, tiny leaves reaching up in great coiling vines to settle in clusters across his shoulders.

Thranduil had worn green every day since Legolas had sailed into the west, over a hundred years ago now. Feren took a liberty and sat quietly beside him on the steps, waiting for his answer.

Thranduil gave a great shuddering breath and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I would have you sail,” he said, bitterly, “all of you, but I know those who still remain here will not. My fate is tied to theirs, and if they are to fade to little more than woodland spirits, or to die, become lifeless husks at the hands of this new enemy, then I will join them.”

Feren cast his eyes low, brow furrowed as Thranduil continued. “But I fear that if I were to truly seal these halls again, I would be sealing our tomb. We will surely fade and become like ghosts.”

Feren’s voice was soft when he spoke. “I have served you all these long years, my lord, and I am forever yours. You know this. I will stay with you until the end, whether that path lies here in these halls, or out there among the new horrors of the world.” He looked up. “But you know stagnation chafes at me. Heed my words my lord, please. Let me take my guard, Eryn Lasgalen’s finest, to find the stronghold of this creature. We still have kin in the east, enough to lead an attack if we can find the source of the evil, to drive it out now before true horror has a chance to rise again in the world. Let me do this.”

He knelt on the stair before his king and Thranduil peered through his fingers, misery written in the lines of his face. Feren’s expression was pleading, sincere, and Thranduil smiled sadly. “You have indeed stood by my side longer than most, Feren Amdirion, and I thank you for your service. I will allow this scouting mission, on one condition.”

Feren tilted his head in question. “Anything, my lord.”

Thranduil held his head higher and smiled, and that certainly never bode well, Feren couldn't help but think.

  


“No. Absolutely not. I refuse to allow this.”

“I’m afraid you forget, once again, commander, that I am the King and you are not. I am coming.”

Feren fumed silently, even as Thranduil swung himself astride his great battle elk and adjusted his wrist-guards casually, disinterested almost, except that Feren knew better. He was teasing a reaction out of Feren, trying to needle at him to provoke his anger. Well, it was working.

“Your people need you here, Thranduil!” He looked around at the shocked expressions of the rest of their party and stepped in closer to whisper conspiratorially, nearly hissing at his king, “What will they do if their king does not return to them? You are far too important to leave for this!”

“I am far too important to listen to you, actually,” Thranduil volleyed, and had he been about two ages younger, Feren would have expected the Elvenking’s tongue to stick out from between his lips impetuously.

Feren scoffed.

“Now go get your horse, commander. I grow bored waiting, and I believe you are making a scene.”

Feren felt his eye twitch and a throbbing start up in the back of his head. “Don’t get yourself killed you pompous creature,” he hissed under his breath. It was low enough that none of his men or women heard it, but Thranduil’s cold, self-satisfied laughter followed him to his horse, where he sat himself stiffly and moved to the head of the party.

  


There was a strange sense of urgency, Thranduil noticed, with him amongst their ranks. He brought their number to eleven, which was one more than Feren had obviously planned on. It was clear his commander was more than a little uneasy to lead his king on a scouting mission, and his disdain seemed like a great gale, a personal rain-cloud that unleashed a small storm over Thranduil from the moment they left the gates of Eryn Lasgalen and began north-east, following the Forest River through the trees on silent horseback. Thranduil rode at Feren’s side calmly as he fumed.

“You just had to bring the elk, didn’t you?” Feren finally said after they had stopped for lunch at midday.

Thranduil turned cold eyes on his friend. “Now he speaks,” he retorted, breaking off the corner of a piece of Lembas and chewing on it idly. Feren rolled his eyes. “Thalawest will see me through danger just as well as any of your men, as did his father, and his grandfather before him. You know this. He is swift and he is true. This is not a suicide mission for me, you realise? I am sick of sitting idly by. I wish to get to the bottom of this threat and eliminate it, before any other elf has to die in this supposed peace.”

Feren studied him critically, fixing him with an unwavering stare that put Thranduil ill-at-ease. “What?” he snapped, annoyed.

Feren shook his head. “Sometimes I am thankful for it, but many days I regret that you ever met Bard of Dale and became his ally. You have been loathe to sit still ever since, though it has been hundreds of years.”

Feren went back to eating his meal as though the words he said had not brought Thranduil’s world crashing down around him, as though the air had not suddenly seemed to still and the colours of the forest become darker, more muted. Thranduil snarled and before he could think twice, he had Feren’s collar bunched between his fingers and held him several inches in the air. He did not hear Feren’s strangled yelp, or notice the way their camp became hushed in an instant, all eyes on him. His heart was pounding in his head and his eyes were wild; it was hard, suddenly, to breathe and his chest felt like it was laden with stone.

“Do not speak that name to me,” he hissed. “Not now, not ever.” The faint sound of sizzling reached his ears and he smelled it in an instant- the scalding of his flesh, of his face where he was once burned by dragon-fire. He knew no one else could smell it, but when he lost control of his temper like this, the magic that he used to glamour his appearance faltered and the illusion slipped. Feren had seen it before and he saw it again now. Thranduil noticed his eyes widen as they flickered to his left cheek and he dropped him to the ground, turning away from him and the rest of his troop.

He kept that side of his face hidden behind a curtain of hair as he stalked back to Thalawest, who gave him a concerned look and a soft snort, but did not protest as he swung himself over the creature’s back and snarled over his shoulder, “Pack up and get to your horses, we’re leaving.” He clicked his tongue and Thalawest began a slow trot ahead of them. Thranduil’s heart was still thudding in his chest but his scars were beginning to fade again. He cursed the reaction he still had to hearing Bard’s name. It made sadness and weariness and rage tangle around his heart like a thorned overgrowth in a dark wood. He did not look back to see the miserable expression with which Feren watched him ride away.

  


They spent the night a short way from the river, further into the woods under the thick blanket of trees, and Thranduil kept his awareness spread out like a veil around them, guarding them through the night, even when Feren took the watch and did all he could to make him rest. But Thranduil was still on edge and found little sleep between his restless thoughts of Bard and worry for what they may find on this expedition.

The peace his son had fought for had lasted, but not forever. _Nothing lasted forever,_ Thranduil thought bitterly. No one was entirely certain where this new darkness had originated, or how severe the threat might truly be, but queer things were happening once again in Middle Earth. A strange new cult had sprung up, seemingly from nowhere, in the cities and dwellings of Men. Who or what they worshipped was unclear, but more and more were going missing, and the bodies of Elves and Men alike were turning up pale, necks torn and drained of blood in gulches and on riverbanks. In the far away City of Gondor, a young man had been found recently in the street one morning in such a state, lifeless and white as snow.

Thranduil had sealed his halls, doubled his guard, but still his tradesmen, his scouts- even this far North of Gondor- vanished. Some were never recovered. Others were. On one occasion a scout was found as the sun rose before the very gates of Greenwood, a pale, lifeless vessel of an elf he once knew by name.

But this strange evil was not the only thing the world had to fear in these dark days. Orcs had begun to creep back from their caves and dungeons, from all the foul places in the earth to which they had slunk off after the destruction of the Ring and the Fall of Sauron. Their number was not yet great, but orcs bred armies quickly, and they could sense the darkness, if they didn’t serve it directly. They would multiply in no time.

In the North, there were the bats. Great black things, with wings like miniature dragons- they circled the skies at night and screeched foreign words to each other, swooping beneath the trees and blocking the light of the stars like smoke. Thranduil did not fear these like he feared the orcs, or the human servants of the thing that drank blood and spread evil, but still they unsettled him.

More unsettling was the whisper and murmur of a dragon- a fire drake alive and well in the Silver Mountains, or the wastelands of Forodwaith; somewhere far to the north of Rhovanion. The people of Dale and even some of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen claimed to have seen it in the skies at night.

It circled the city, they said, silent and far above, never venturing too close or showing any sign of danger to the people below. The shimmering red of its scales would reflect on the water of the river late at night, they said, and then suddenly, it would vanish again. It left few witnesses, but there had been enough in the last several hundred years- too many for Thranduil to dismiss the possibility entirely. The people of Dale did not forget Laketown. They left flowers and offerings of sweet breads and carved wood and metal trinkets at the foot of a great marble statue in the centre of town, where the lifeless, towering features of King Bard looked down and granted them protection from the beast, or so they thought. Thranduil himself thought the thing ridiculous. He found that he could not look upon it, and indeed it had been many years since he had even stepped foot in the city.

Dale seemed as yet untouched by the thing that corrupted the hearts of Men, however, and word from Gondor was slow, especially when his messengers and emissaries didn’t always survive the journey. But the bats came from the North, from somewhere over the Grey Mountains, into the wastelands of Forodwaith, and that gave him a place to start.

Feren was right, after all; ever since he met Bard, all those years ago in the Ruins of the now-great city of Dale, he found it hard to sit still and let the fortunes of the world pass him by as he once had. Bard ignited a spark, and after he was lost, his children kept it alive within him, until they too passed. He could not forsake this place. He would fight for it, if he must, and if his people chose to stay here with him, he would fight for them too.

  


The next morning they set out again and broke the tree-cover by noon. From there it was not quite a day’s journey to the foot of Ered Mithrim, where they would continue their journey on foot the following morning, after making camp for the night. Mount Gundabad lay nestled in those hills, in the crook between the Grey Mountains and The Misty Mountains and then further west where they formed what was once known as the Mountains of Angmar. Those white-tipped peaks did not stretch far as they once used to, in the days before the War of Wrath when Ered Engrin encompassed them and cut a line across Middle Earth nearly from the coast of the Great Sea to the Red Mountains in the East. But Gundabad remained in the hills that still stood, a relic of Sauron’s reign upon the lands in the North, and orcs still dwelt there.

Thranduil and Feren were, for once, in agreement that the bats must be coming from that dark place, and if they could confirm that this was a stronghold of their enemy, they could comprise an army great enough to take it by surprise.

They continued on in the morning, and when they met the River Greylin at the foot of the mountains, they departed from their steeds and Thranduil from his elk. The lands to the south, stretching in open fields where the rivers from the hills became the Anduin, would give them plenty of green grass to graze upon and they would find shelter in the abandoned city of Framsburg until their masters returned. All told, it would be about four days until they reached Gundabad- perhaps longer.

Thranduil whispered instructions to Thalawest to keep a careful watch over the horses until then, and said his farewells as he turned a solemn gaze on the mountains ahead. Feren caught his eye and nodded, and Thranduil allowed him to take the lead. Stealth and leadership were where Feren excelled, and Thranduil knew he would guide them well. He joined the rest of the company in drawing up his hood. They all wore shades of brown and grey, for the hills were not yet covered in snow, and they would have to escape notice if they were to be successful.

Even with Feren as a guide, the going was tough. They did not follow any path. They all knew the way to Gundabad, and Thranduil knew it all too well, for it was there his wife’s body rested. Her spirit walked the Halls of Mandos, and it was a relief to him that death in this world meant the surety of her embrace in the next. He would not sail for this reason. He could not meet the eyes of his wife’s parents, his beloved Galadhwen, whom he let slip between his fingers, as he had done with Bard. Their deaths haunted him, but unlike Galadhwen, he would be forever denied a second chance with Bard.

Thranduil dreaded going back to this place, but something also called him towards it, a whisper on the crisp wind that some answer to a question lie in these mountains.

They set up camp as the sun began to set over the peaks on the first night. Feren found a shallow cave set against the side of the hill that looked uninhabited and bore no trace of any other living thing, and there they set their mats and began to eat a modest dinner of dried meat and Lembas, clustered together for warmth and security in the bitter chill of the mountain.

Thranduil sat some distance away and kept watch. The sun settled beyond the hills and darkness crept over them, blanketing the craggy rocks and white peaks of the Grey Mountains. The stars were brighter up here than they were in Greenwood, and he felt at-ease, more so than he had in many long years. Elbereth’s light shone gently down on him from the heavens, and he could see the great constellations made from the light of the Silver Tree.

He felt a strange peace steal over him and very softly, he began to sing,

“ _A, Elbereth Gilthoniel…_  
Silivren penna míriel  
O menel aglar elenath,  
Gilthoniel, A, Elbereth…”

He blinked up at the stars, drawing a long breath, but before he could continue, Feren’s voice picked up the melody, low and quiet as a soft summer rain,

“ _We still remember, we who dwell_  
In this far land beneath the trees  
The starlight on the Western Seas…”

Thranduil looked back to find his commander standing just a few paces behind him, staring up at the stars just as he was. The rest of their party watched them silently, an air of sadness about them. Orelion, a young scout named for the Morningstar, turned glistening eyes away from them first and the rest followed suit, giving them privacy as Feren sat beside Thranduil.

He watched Feren watch the stars, saying nothing as Feren gathered his thoughts. Finally Feren cast his eyes downward and sighed. “I did not mean to hurt you earlier,” he said gently, “by speaking of him. I know you mourn him still, just as I know you mourn _her_ as well. I do not know why you chose to accompany us to this miserable place when there is nothing but pain for you here.”

Thranduil continued to watch him though he did not meet Thranduil’s eyes. Feren knew him too well. Of course he saw through his king’s anger; he always seemed to do so. “I had to,” he replied curtly. Then he sighed and softened his voice. “I owe it to her, and to him.”

Feren finally met his eyes. “I would take back what I said before,” he said, smiling faintly. “I think you are a better elf for having known him, actually. He opened your heart and though you have drawn the gates over it once more, I can still see his influence shining through in some precious moments.”

Thranduil frowned and shifted uncomfortably. He was growing agitated again. “Alright, that’s enough of that, I think.” He allowed his voice to grow cold again and Feren straightened subconsciously in response. “Tell me your plan again. How much further until we reach Gundabad?”

“Three days if we are swift and continue to pass unnoticed. As we near the fortress, we should begin to see orc scouts, but they will not be expecting us and should be easy to avoid.”

“And you think we will find what we are looking for, once we arrive?”

Feren inclined his head. “Where else could the bats be coming from? We will find them there, my lord, and we will gather an army to destroy them and that foul place, and then you will have some peace.”

Thranduil turned back to study the stars again, but there was a coldness in him that even they could not warm. He did not have the heart to tell Feren that he was mistaken. He would never find peace on this earth.

  


The next two days were long and laborious, but they passed without event. Their company was deep in the mountains by now, and the wind cut and bit at them as if it was a living thing. Thranduil kept his cloak tight about him and his eyes forward, and Feren did not say anything else about what they had spoken of under the stars. Thranduil was grateful for his silence.

On the third day, they heard orc scouts, just as Feren had predicted. Feren took Lymerien, Orelion's sister and quietest of them all, and they spied on the camp for a while, hidden at a distance behind the snarled and crooked jut of a rocky hill, while the rest of their company hid further downwind. Feren reported back that they could discern nothing of importance from their chatter, only crudity and the gross smack of lips and crunch of bones as they tore into a lunch of  some  uncooked  mountain creature . 

They quietly continued on their way, noses wrinkled in disgust and hands on their weapons. They broke for camp again that night in another shallow crevice in the hillside, hushed and dark and hidden from sight.

He spent the first hours of twilight studying his people quietly. Lymerien and Orelion were huddled together discussing something under their breath. They were both younger than Legolas, and Thranduil felt a twinge of his heart when he thought of the sacrifice they had made to stay here, instead of sailing into the West with their people. Orelion had a husband back in Eryn Lasgalen. They had decided to make a life here in Middle Earth, in a world that no longer had a place for them, so that they could remain by his side. He felt protective of his people now more than ever. What if they did not find the bats at Gundabad? What if they were ambushed and did not return home? He understood Feren's concern for his king joining a simple scouting mission, but as far as that king was concerned, Greenwood would be just as devastated to lose a single one of the elves here, as it would to lose him. 

He would not let that happen. He would watch over every elf that called home to Greenwood the Great, and he would sacrifice anything,  _everything,_ to keep them safe. He could not lose any other.

Thranduil had been haunted by the prickling sensation of being watched for the better half of the day, and his current train of thought was setting him on edge. He was restless just sitting here doing nothing, so he quietly and without room for argument, removed Feren from watch duty and stood guard himself, staring out into the inky darkness of the mountain and keeping his ears trained on the eerie silence of the peak.

After some time had passed, and the stars had begun to creep further across the sky, his ears picked up something strange in the stillness. Thranduil thought he heard the faint flutter of wings, but it was gone again in an instant, and he was left feeling unsure whether he had heard anything at all, or whether paranoia was getting the better of him. He kept his eyes trained on the heavy sheet of darkness around them just in case, and focused on the thought of destroying Gundabad once and for all.

Feren was poring over a map with Lymerien when Thranduil saw the first pricks of light in the dark.

There were two of them, gleaming some distance away, too low to be stars, and too close together to be anything but eyes. Thranduil’s stomach lurched and he stepped quietly back and carefully reached to his side to touch Feren’s arm, a feather-light pressure designed to gain his attention. When he had it, he nudged his head in the direction of the eyes and Feren cursed under his breath, even as more eyes appeared around them. The rest of the company stiffened and Feren whispered on the slightest of breath, “Wargs.”

Thranduil reached for his sword and the next moment was a blur of motion.

Snarling echoed from all around them as the wargs leapt out from their hiding places and a troop of orcs came charging with them.

A volley of arrows whizzed past him as his archers drew their bows and began firing. Several of the orcs fell in an instant, but there were more behind them and Thranduil drew his sword in readiness.

“These are not the orcs from earlier,” he said to Feren, who appeared beside him, sword also in hand. “How did they find us?”

Feren beat down an incoming arrow from one of the orcs and slashed a brutal line across the first orc to meet his sword. “I don’t know! These are not normal wargs, my lord! Something is amiss!”

There came the flutter of wings above them again and Thranduil cursed, realizing what it was. “The bats!” he shouted. “The bats were watching us!”

He parried a swing from an orc-blade and answered it with one of his own as his company fell into close combat around him.

He swung to the side and lashed out at another orc, then knelt low to the ground as a great white warg leapt at him. He tossed the beast over his shoulder and swung himself around, foot sliding on the dirt and stone as he slayed the beast with one sword and used his momentum to launch back up at another.

There was a roar behind him, and he whirled to face it, but before he could strike the orc scout, a monstrous black bat was on the creature, tearing at it and screeching. The orc didn't stand a chance. Thranduil made a startled sound as his eyes widened, astonished, but had little time to dwell on the strangeness of the aid before he found himself assaulted once again and fell back into battle. 

The bats were coming to their defense. All around him now, they swooped and clawed at the orcs and the wargs alongside Thranduil's men.

“What is happening?” Feren shouted, and Thranduil had no chance to respond, for at that moment he heard a pained shout to his right, and turned to see Orelion, his face twisted in pain, blood staining his pale ashen hair and a gnarled sword embedded in his back. He was temporarily frozen in pain, but the orc behind him was already moving in for the kill.

Thranduil gritted his teeth and charged, his heart thundering as he threw himself on the orc that dared,  _dared_ injure one of his people.  _No more of this._ He would not have any more deaths on his hands. Not this night.

The orc fell quickly, a twitching, headless heap on the ground, and Thranduil turned to Orelion, who was crouched, one hand clenched tight around a fistful of dirt and pebbles where he dug into the ground. His face was screwed up in agony and Thranduil felt his stomach lurch. “Orelion,” he said, holding out a hand for the boy, “are you alright?”

Orelion looked up to speak and reached up for his lord's hand, but it froze midway and his eyes widened suddenly in fear. “My Lord,” he breathed, and then shouted in a voice strained but fervent, “ _Tirio!_ Behind you!”

Thranduil turned and saw two things at once. 

The first was a great, shining red blur that caught the light of the stars, reflecting off scales as familiar to Thranduil as the Halls of his own Kingdom. His eyes widened as the creature fell upon them from the sky, a great roar shaking the ground and encompassing them all. It was fast and indistinct, but Thranduil thought he knew it for what it was immediately, saw the carnage it wrought as it tore into an orc and ripped it apart.

“The Dragon,” he whispered, and he could feel again the fire of enemies long-slain against his cheek, the side of his neck. It was true, then. A dragon did reside in these mountains, and this was surely the end for all of them. He thought quickly of Bard and his great black arrow, how he had destroyed the serpent Smaug, and he wished, bitterly for his friend in that moment.

But he did not have long to dwell on such thoughts, for the second thing that he saw would be the last, before his eyes closed and he fell away from the world of the waking.

The breath was stolen from him as a pale white warg the size of a horse came charging from behind and had him in its mouth like a child's rag doll before he could so much as lift his sword. He felt his ribs collapse under the pressure of the beast's jaw and he choked on a cry, eyes wide. 

He saw the hazy shape of the dragon amidst the carnage of orcs turn, spotting him from a distance, and he could have sworn, for that brief moment before the world went dark, it had the face of Bard. 

But then his eyes dimmed and he saw no more.

  


  


The first time Thranduil dreamed, it was a blur; a hazy cold fevered dream. He dreamed that he was flying above the mountaintops, held tight against a man's chest, familiar from his dreams of long ago when he had indulged in fantasy and wistful fancy. He tried to whisper his name but he was dreaming, and his words were far away, at the bottom of thick water and heavy, impossible to grasp. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in Bard's arms, but in the clutches of the dragon. He shivered and willed himself to stop dreaming.

  


The second time he dreamed, he felt pain. It happened sometimes in dreams, but never this intensely. His side was a roaring inferno and his ribs felt as though they were heavy rubble pressing against his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He remembered being attacked by the giant warg, and thought for a moment that he wasn't dreaming after all, but he felt himself lowered gently from a dead king's arms and placed in a bed of soft, silken sheets, and he knew he was mistaken. Perhaps he was dying, and this was his mind's way of coping with that reality. “Bard,” he whispered brokenly, and this time his voice did not desert him, though it was far away and weak. A cold hand smoothed back his hair ever so gently, and he slipped away once more.

  


When he dreamed for a third time, there was a strange taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes again, and though he still felt feverish and distant, there was less pain in his side. He could breathe easier. The taste of metal on his tongue was like blood, and he wondered if he had coughed it up from his pierced lung, and the taste had followed him into his dreams. He saw a pale arm at his side, and watched as two deep puncture wounds on the wrist knitted together and began to heal before his very eyes. He didn't understand the meaning behind this, and drifted back into unconscious sleep.

  


The next time his eyes opened, he was immediately aware of a hand in his hair, stroking soothingly. The hand was large, pale, and cold. Not delicate enough for an elf or a woman. The fog slowly lifted from his eyes and he looked up into Bard's worried features. He smiled, but then as he began to feel more and more lucid, a heavy weight pulled his features down and he snarled, reaching out and stilling that hand, even though he wanted nothing more than to kiss those fingers and revel in that gentle touch. But his heart hurt.

It was too much, and his chest still felt too open, his soul too raw. He had nearly lost another elf- and perhaps, honestly, he had. He did not know how long he had been asleep. Maybe all his company was dead. He had failed yet again and he did not deserve this fantasy, this unconscious reprieve.

Bard was dead. This was a delusion, and a cruel one at that.

“Leave me,” he rasped. “Go away and stop tormenting me, 'ere I vow never to sleep again.”

Bard frowned and had the nerve to look beautiful and otherworldly even in his confusion. Thranduil cursed him for it.

“My Lord Thranduil,” he spoke, his voice soft and gentle, deep and wrapped in that endearing Laketown accent that Thranduil had come to love so many, many years ago. “Do you think me a dream...?”

Thranduil surged forward, his voice caught on an anguished wail and reached trembling hands for the spectre's throat. His breath caught when the pain in his side roared suddenly back to life, and he collapsed on himself, fading mercifully from his dream. His last vision was of this illusion of Bard, sorrow written on his face as he calmly settled him back into bed and brought his own wrist up to his lips.

  


The next time he opened his eyes, he was alone. He thanked the Valar for that. He wondered again if he was still dreaming, but silk sheets still lie atop him and he was surrounded by cold stone walls that seemed to ooze some unsettling malice. He couldn't find a reason for it, so perhaps he was indeed dreaming still.

He threw back the covers and gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing when his bare feet met the bitter cold of the floor. How odd, to feel such things so accutely in one's dreams. He allowed himself a moment to get accustomed to the chill, then stepped carefully out of bed. His side was but a murmur of pain, instead of the agony he remembered so vividly from before. It was there still, but it was subdued. He ran cautious fingers over his side and felt the tight confines of a bandage. It was clean, which meant that he had either been out for a very long time, or he had healed unusually fast.

_Or you're dreaming,_ he reminded himself. He wasn't honestly sure, at this point.

There was a long red robe laid out over a chair by the bedside, made of heavy, soft fabric that looked decadent and indulgent. He was shirtless and barefoot, and the air was too chill for his comfort, so he took it and drew it about his shoulders, looking around curiously.

The bedroom was surely in an old castle. The stone was ancient, and he couldn't shake that feeling that there was something terribly wrong with the place. Despite this, the room itself was surprisingly homey. The bed he had lain upon was overlarge, lavish, with white silk and heavy burgandy covers that must have been stuffed with feather down, as soft as they were. The canopy above was light, billowy and sensous, fluttering in the gentle breeze drifting in from a door that was slightly ajar, leading out to what must surely be a balcony. The sconces on the walls flickered a warm glow throughout the room, and portraits and paintings depicted scenes that Thranduil glanced over quickly.

His attention turned again to the balcony, and he drew the robe tighter around him and stepped towards it. Perhaps, if he wasn't dreaming, he could gain a better idea of where he was, if he went outside. Perhaps he would gain some clarity.

He opened the door fully and winced at the cold that met his feet, greater out here than it was inside. He looked out, over the stone rail and immediately realised two things, each as unsettling as the other.

First, he was still in the mountains. The white-capped peaks stretched as far as his eyes could see, reaching up from a heavy fog that settled around the castle like a sheet.

Second, and perhaps most unnerving, was the number of corpses that littered the hillside. He recognised the ugly, dull armour that signified orc scouts, but that didn't ease the growing nausea that twisted in his belly. There were too many of them, most lying in heaps on the ground, but some- some were impaled on long spikes that shot up from the ground like trees. Many were nothing more than skeletons and piles of armour at the foot of these spikes, leading Thranduil to wonder exactly how long they had been there and  _where,_ exactly, he had managed to find himself.

He turned away from the gruesome scene, turning his back on the twilight steadily turning the mountains to shadow, and went back inside.

He shivered once again and focused instead on the paintings on the wall that he had passed over so casually before. The landscapes were familiar to him. Rivers and icy lakes, barrels floating into harbour from a densely wooded forest. A great dragon in one, illuminated from behind by a glowing moon, the whole of Laketown burning beneath. And then there were the portraits. Thranduil's eyes widened. He recognised these- all of them.

Bain in shimmering armour, leading an army from atop his faithful steed. Sigrid and her Elven husband Merenon, smiling out at a crowd of family and friends as they celebrated their wedding day. Tilda, looking mournful, her face twisted in sorrow and grief as she stared out at the mountainside. And there, at the end a portrait that took his breath away.

It was Thranduil himself, dressed in his regal silver robe, a crown of new spring leaves in his hair and a conspiratorial smile on his face. Only one man had ever been the recipient of that smile, and Thranduil remembered dreaming of his arms, his rich voice, his hand in his hair. His stomach turned. The likeness was incredible, this painting. The talent displayed was simply stunning. He turned away from it, feeling a sweat break out over his brow.

He turned instead to a previously overlooked wardrobe that caught his attention, its delicately carved wood in spirals and neat, geometric patterns. He ran his fingers over its surface, feeling nervous, suddenly, at the thought of opening it. So much was flooding through his thoughts, and he didn't know how to process any of it, or make sense of anything he was seeing. He traced the handle fearfully and took a deep breath. 

He opened the door, and here was the dragon.

He covered his mouth with his hand, reeling. It was Smaug, his inpenetrable scales modeled into a dreadful, fearsome set of armour. Could this have been what he had seen, on the hillside as it fell from the sky in a blur and demolished orcs like they were old branches to be snapped? Could this be what the people of Dale, and Erebor and Greenwood itself saw in the sky and imagined that it was a fire-breathing serpent come down from the North to destroy them all?

He heard footsteps behind him, soft and quiet on the stone, but Bard didn't say anything.

“I'm not dreaming... am I?” he asked, voice trembling.

“No,” Bard answered.

Thranduil turned slowly, afraid to look upon him, afraid to see him truly, in the flesh, and know a truth that seemed impossible to believe. He was afraid to see a monster, a demon that had been brought back for the sole purpose of tormenting him; but when his eyes met Bard's, he saw none of that.

Instead he saw a man, the man that he had loved, and failed to keep, a man that looked on him with trepidation and worry, who looked as though he were about to, at any moment, turn and flee back into the castle. 

Thranduil felt his heart split open and his feet were moving before he even willed them to.

He stopped a breath away from him, unable to close the final distance and unsure of whether he wanted more to kiss him or to hit him. “How is this possible,” he breathed.

Bard looked away, studying the stone beneath their feet. His eyes lingered on Thranduil's bare toes. “I should fetch you some shoes,” he murmured.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed and he felt drawn back to reality by Bard's obvious misdirection. “Do not change the subject,” he demanded, voice regaining some of its natural authority. “Tell me how this has come to be. Tell me how you have returned.”

Bard looked guilty, sad. “I never left,” he said softly.

“You never...” Thranduil could feel rage rising within him, the urge to lash out overwhelming any other. “I watched your son die,” he said venemously, staring down at the man, hardly a breath away, “I held him in my arms and you're telling me you never left? I stood on the shores of the Grey Havens and watched your daughter sail away into the Undying Lands with one of my own, and you're here, now, telling me _you never left?”_

Bard seemed to visibly tremble. “I deserve your rage,” he said pitifully. “But you must understand, I could not go back. Not after...” He swallowed thickly. “Tilda saw me... for what I truly was. I frightened her, I made her cry.”

Thranduil's eyes widened as he pulled a memory from deep in the annals of his mind. “When we returned from Dol Guldur,” he whispered. “Tilda said she had seen you. Everyone thought that she simply had a nightmare. She didn't, did she?”

Bard shook his head. “No.” He turned away and Thranduil felt rooted to the spot, unable to move as the new information passed through him. “I met a great evil in the caves of Dol Guldur,” he explained. “I bargained with it, like a fool. It said it could heal me, that I could see my family again, but it was a lie.” His hand clenched into a fist at his side. “I could not face them, not after what I had become.  _I am a monster,_ Thranduil. I am evil, a plague. I feast on the blood of the living to survive, and I do not suffer from illness or death, though I greatly deserve it.”

A cold dread grew through Thranduil's veins. He remembered elves lying before his gates, drained of life and cold. “Tell me you are not the creature who slays my people, who walks among the men of Gondor and seduces them  commit wicked deeds.  _Tell me_ .”

Bard sighed. “No, that is not I, but I am sure it is the one who made me. I do not know why he chooses now to spread his malice over the world, but I fear what it means.”

Thranduil breathed a sigh of relief and felt a great weight lifted from his mind. “And the orcs out there in the hills?”

“Trespassers. The hoards at Gundabad know of me, and fear me. They have tried countless times to invade my land and be rid of me, but I have destroyed them each time they've tried. I let their corpses serve as warning.” Bard turned to look at him over his shoulder, but his eyes drifted back to the open door, to the mountains beyond. A sort of quiet malice overtook him and his face twisted into something ugly and fierce. “I will not be overcome. My armour is like tenfold shields. My teeth are like swords!”

Thranduil swallowed his dread. He reached out and touched warm fingertips to Bard's brow, smoothing out the creases. Bard jerked, his whole body flinching and he turned to face Thranduil fully, his face becoming beautiful and soft again. Thranduil had seen those words written before, in Bilbo's tale of Smaug. He thought of Dragon Sickness and madness, and he swallowed heavily as he trailed his fingers down to trace along Bard's jaw. His skin felt like smooth stone, the scratch of his stubble hard and sharp. “You are so cold,” he said softly, “I noticed it before, when I thought you were a dream.” Bard watched him. “This is why. You are no longer human.”

“No.” Bard agreed, turning his face into Thranduil's hand and looking up into his eyes through dark lashes. Thranduil saw a fire there that took his breath away. He did not think it was an accident the way Bard's lips brushed so casually against his palm. “I am something else. Does that frighten you, my lord?”

“Valar yes,” Thranduil breathed, and he couldn't say whether he moved first, or if Bard did, but their lips were two thunderheads colliding, making sparks between them like lightning. Bard surged forward like a hungry animal, gripping Thranduil's arms and pushing him so his back hit the wall and Thranduil gasped into his mouth. Bard licked the sound from him and devoured him like he was starving.

Thranduil fisted his hands in Bard's hair, a sharp, white heat roaring to life in his belly and stretching greedy tendrils through his veins. His side hurt, but it was faint and far away, and he wanted to focus on nothing more than Bard, his teeth and his tongue, and the heavy press of him against his chest and between his legs. He shuddered, grasping at Bard as if he would vanish again.

One of those pale hands gentled its grip and trailed up his shoulder, slipping the robe down his arm. He felt cool fingers slide over his flushed skin and settle against his throat, tracing a long line down his jugular. Bard growled and suddenly there was a sharp pain in his lip and he flinched.

Bard pulled away as if struck and stared wide eyes at him, breathing hard. There was blood on his lips.

Thranduil panted, trying to pull in air at even intervals and failing rather miserably. He reached curious fingers to his own lips and found the puncture wound Bard's teeth had left. It was shallow and only bleeding a little; in fact he was sure he had bitten his lip worse than this on occasion with no help from outside sources, but Bard looked as though he had run him through with a sword. His eyes wide, he trembled visibly; and when Thranduil murmured his name and took a step towards him, Bard shook his head warily and took a mirrored step back.

“I'll hurt you,” he whispered. Fear was holding his features hostage, and Thranduil wanted nothing more then to reach back out and soothe the wrinkles on his forehead, to kiss away his frown lines. He was still breathing heavy, flooded by emotions and endorphins and while he was frightened of what Bard had become, it ultimately didn't matter. It all faded away in those stormy eyes that Thranduil knew so well.

He did reach out then and took Bard's hand, even though it trembled in his. He set it back upon his throat and pressed his lips to Bard's thumb. “I have wanted to kiss you since the day I saw you standing upon the ruins of Dale. I've yearned to touch my skin to yours since you stood before me in my halls and entered into my employ as a bargeman and delivery boy. And the day you became King of Dale,” he drew closer until he could lean his forehead down and rest it against Bard's. He held his gaze steady. “The day you exchanged the crown I made you for the necklace of your kin, I could only imagine all the world around us falling away, so that we stood before the vastness of eternity together. I wanted you by my side and I was a fool for holding my tongue. I caused us both to suffer needlessly, for I know that you felt the same.”

His eyes flickered to the portrait on the wall, of his own secret smile, of a bond that was made visible in oils and in soft pigments. Bard's eyes followed, and he breathed around a bitter laugh.

Thranduil leaned in further, caught the breath between his lips and held it within him. He smoothed back a wisp of grey from Bard's temple. There was far less of it now than Thranduil remembered. Indeed it seemed that most of his old friend's age had been wiped away, smoothed by a sculptor's hands and set in stone so that he would neither fade nor wither. He looked younger than he had the day the dwarves retook Erebor, but somehow profoundly old at the same time. He wore his age in his eyes and every look he set upon Thranduil spoke of pain and solitude.

“I will hurt you,” he said again, voice rough and embittered. “I don't want to, but I will. I thirst Thranduil, and it never stops. It never quiets. It's like a voice in my ear, incessant, unyielding, telling me to tear you apart.” He laughed again. “I am cursed. This is my hell.”

“Then I will share it with you.” Thranduil did not have to think twice about his answer. It was a simple truth. “I lost you once before, and I cannot do it again. _Melethenin...”_

Bard's eyes lit upon him with recognition and awe. His mouth opened in surprise.

“I trust you,” Thranduil whispered. “And I will give you my blood, if you desire it.” He traced the curve of Bard's ear and the sharp line of his jaw. “I will give you my body, and my soul as well. I will give you anything, my love, if you only promise not to leave me again.”

Bard squeezed his eyes tightly shut and nodded  in agreement. Wetness lingered at the corners of his eyes and Thranduil wiped it away with the pads of his thumbs. “I don't deserve this,” Bard lamented.

“Hush.” Thranduil brought their lips together again, and this time it was soft, gentle. Bard caressed his throat with reverent touches, mapping out the web of veins under his skin and licked at the blood drying on his lip. He moaned low in his throat and Thranduil felt a warm surge of emotion and lust roll through him.

He parted his lips for Bard, and held him tightly as those sharp teeth scraped over him, a background noise of danger behind the warm  persistence of his tongue. Thranduil made a soft noise of approval and allowed his mouth to be claimed.

Bard's fingers tensed, his nails becoming insistent pressure points against his collar and his neck, carving angry red lines as they found his chest where it was exposed from the robe that hung loose.  Thranduil's back arched gracefully and he gasped, his hips jerking at the sudden  pleasure-pain of nails scraping over a nipple.

Bard was growling again, soft and low in the back of his throat. Thranduil gasped against his lips.

I t had been an age since he had felt this fire that sang through his blood and two since anyone had last touched him this way.  He had the fleeting thought that his wife would have approved, before  Bard's hands wiped his mind of rational thought and he was left sighing and  desperately  _ wanting  _ more of this strange cold touch and the contrast of a warm mouth on his.

Bard pulled him close and ground their hips together in slow teasing circles. “Ai,” Thranduil breathed, feeling an answering hardness against him and reveling in the way it felt to be so close, so maddeningly close, to the man he thought gone. He pressed closer, shuddered and exhaled against Bard's ear, smoothing hands over his sides and his back, touching him wherever he could reach. Bard's tunic was handsome, but it was in the way. “Disrobe,” he demanded quietly.

The castle walls still felt oppresive and foul, and Thranduil found himself compelled to keep his voice low. He did not wish to disturb whatever evil dwelt here. Bard looked up at him and grinned, and Thranduil's breath caught at the sight of it. He was unsure whether he had simply failed to notice them before, or whether he was seeing them now for the first time, but Bard's canines were wicked looking and sharp, longer than they should have been. Thranduil licked over the bite mark on his lip and swallowed heavily, following Bard's movement as the once-king walked him backwards until the back of his legs hit the bed and he was forced to sit.

His robe had become further disheveled and he let it pool around him on the silk sheets. Bard was taller than him now, and he looked down on him like a wild thing stalking its trembling prey in the quiet of night. Thranduil felt his heart thunder in his head and was sure that Bard could hear it too.

Bard 's eyes raked over him, taking in every minute detail from his bare shoulder to his mussed hair and lingered on his swollen lip, and Thranduil found himself unable to look away. He felt trapped under the weight of those eyes, stormy green and brown and roiling like dark clouds at sea, quickly blocking out the light of day. Bard kept him locked in his sight and began, slowly, to remove his clothing. First his outer tunic with its draping sleeves of red and gold, and then the shirt beneath, coming open one clasp at a time until Thranduil could catch the light of the sconces reflecting off the pale expanse of his chest. Bard had a fine dusting of dark hair that speckled over his abdominals and led, in an enticing line, down his belly and into his trousers. Thranduil's eyes followed it until it disappeared and Bard grinned.

Thranduil's hand tightened its hold on the bundle of robe that he held against his thigh. His fingers ached to grab hold of himself and relieve the tension that was pulling him taut, but as his fingers slid marginally up his leg, Bard's eyes flashed dangerously and he stilled, licking his lips and glaring up at him as if to say,  _ get on with it then. _

Bard did, at least, and slid his pants off his hips little by little, and Thranduil  nearly groaned at the sight of him, flushed and thick and proud, looking for all the world like some obscene marble statue that would make any respectable elven sculptor blush and swoon. 

Thranduil slid his hand firmly over the straining fabric of his own pants and stared an invitation and a challenge up at Bard.

It was a credit to the human, if one could still call him that, that he could always seem to decipher the meaning of Thranduil's many wordless looks. He could understand his meaning by the way his eyes rolled, or flashed, or lingered. It was a sharp pain in his chest to realise that he must have understood even the way Thranduil's eyes softened when he was near, or the way they lingered on his lips when he spoke or smiled. This was not a new romance, they were merely picking up where they left off and rediscovering a language neither had spoken in an age.

Thankfully, Bard was just as fluent as Thranduil remembered, and accepted his challenge with a cocky grin and a raised brow. He set a knee on the bed, between Thranduil's spread and still-clothed legs, and nudged him back. It was a dull ache and a pressure that wasn't enough, but Thranduil moved as he was commanded, inching back and making room for Bard between his legs.

Bard placed a heavy hand against the centre of his chest and pushed, and Thranduil fell back, allowing luscious silk to bra c e his fall and caress his skin.  His side twinged but he ignored it in favour of bending his knees lasciviously and trailing a hand seductively up the inside of his thigh.  His hair fell about his face like a halo of light and Bard trailed his fingers through it reverently. He crawled over Thranduil and kissed him, long and filled with a passion that made Thranduil breathless.

Lips mapped paths over his chest,  over the tight white bandage that covered his  his stomach; teeth pulled and a wet tongue soothed and teased as he explored  the Elvenking's body, and Thranduil could see years of longing in the way he worshipped his body, he could feel the love and the adoration behind every kiss and every press of his mouth. Thranduil felt a swell of emotion and he allowed his head to fall back against the bed. His chest heaved and grief warred with relief and an almost-forgotten happiness to hook into his heart and  _ tug.  _ He clenched his eyes shut and tried to push the tears back that threatened to overtake him.

He cried out at a sudden prick of pain, which only managed to make him feel more desperate and aroused. His hips jerked up and he choked on a sob as he pressed his clothed erection into Bard's shoulder. Bard licked over the puncture wounds he had inflicted to Thranduil's hip, low on his belly where his skin was pale and bare  beneath the bandage . He looked up at Thranduil and furrowed his brow, breathing heavily and looking thoroughly taken apart already.

He wiped a tear off Thranduil's cheek and positioned himself above him, settling his forehead against Thranduil's. 

“What's wrong?” He asked softly. “Have I hurt you? Are you having second thoughts?”

Thranduil shook his head and took Bard's face in his hands. “Nothing's wrong,” he said thickly. He leaned up and pressed his warm lips to Bard's colder ones. “Nothing except that there is light in the world again now that you are here, and  I have become so used to the darkness.”

Bard smiled, a sad, melancholy smile. “I'm afraid I can offer you no light, my lord. Only the opposite.”

“You have always offered me light, Bard,” he said. “Ever it was, and always it shall be. As long as you are by my side, I fear no darkness and no evil.”

“And what if I am the darkness?”

Thranduil kissed him again, long and sweet, and when he pulled away, he whispered against his lips, “Then I shall cloak myself in you and wear you like a shield, and we will be like Mithril, or dragon-hide, impenetrable and beyond  the  reach of harm.”

Bard closed his eyes. “They call me a dragon, you know. The Dragon of the North. They are frightened of me.”

“I do not fear you.”

Bard's eyes flew open. “But you said-”

Thranduil kissed him again. “I fear what you can do, do not mistake me, but I do not fear  _ you. _ ” He pulled Bard down so that he lay solid and firm against his chest, their faces side by side.  He sighed, and allowed the magic that glamoured and hid the mangled scars of his cheek to slowly fade. The pain was immediate, a phantom burning eating away at him from within. Bard gasped and reached up immediately to touch trembling fingers to his jaw. “You have seen this before,” Thranduil explained calmly, though his thoughts were a fractured, scattered mess. 

“When you were hurt, earlier,” he agreed, stroking fingers along Thranduil's jaw and tracing what skin remained over his cheek. “And once more, long ago, when you lost your temper with the dwarven ambassador at that meeting that went so spectacularly wrong.” Thranduil nodded, smiling slightly. “Dragonfire.”

“Yes.” There was silence for a moment, and neither of them moved but for the gentle exploration of Bard's fingers. Finally, Thranduil spoke, though his voice did not rise above a whisper. “Once, I lost my temper with Legolas too, when he was just a boy. It was silly, he committed no crime other than being a child, but I flew into a rage. I yelled at him. I was loud and I was cruel, and he saw me for what I truly am, for the first and only time.”

Bard swallowed heavily against him but allowed him to continue without interruption. “He fled,” Thranduil went on, “into the forest. Without an escort, without a guard, he could have  _ died- _ ” He stopped, his voice caught in his throat. 

When he did not continue for a long moment, Bard spoke softly. “What happened?”

“Feren found him. He would not answer my voice, nor would he find comfort in my arms. It was almost a week before he would see me, and when he finally did, he cried. He held me and he cried, and I cried as well, and he told me that he loved me. He thought I was in pain, and he was ' _so sorry adar, I was just scared because you looked like you hurt so much and it made me too frightened_ _of losing you_ _._ _'_ _”_

They were silent again. Bard's fingers stilled on his skin and his head lay heavy in the crook of Thranduil's neck. Thranduil's breath and the fluttering of the curtains were loud in the stillness, the sconces like roaring fires.

Finally Bard spoke. “You think I could have had this with Tilda. With all of them.”

Thranduil watched the shadows of flame on the ceiling,  through the wisp-thin canopy, and said with a quiet voice, “I think you are too much like myself at times. I think you hide away where it is the wrong thing to do, and I think you are afraid of what the world will think of you because you assume it is the same thing you see when you look in a mirror.” He swallowed and felt Bard shudder against him. “I think you are not the monster you believe yourself to be,” he finished.

Bard said nothing. They lay together on the cool silk and let the wind from the mountain whisk the sweat from Thranduil's flushed skin. A bird called somewhere in the distance,  its voice sharp.

Thranduil allowed his glamour to creep back over him like a security blanket, but Bard continued to trace the lines of scar tissue even as they vanished under his fingers.

“Aren't Mirkwood elves supposed to be less wise? I've often heard that...”

Thranduil laughed, and he could feel some of the tension in Bard's shoulders flee. “Mm,” he agreed, “but we are also more dangerous, if you'll recall, so I would advise you to accept my council and do try not to invoke my wrath.”

Bard chuckled, the sound genuine and warm, and as comforting to Thranduil as tall trees and distant stars. “Aye, aye,” Bard griped, “dangerous indeed, I wonder if that's what makes your blood so sweet and your skin so intoxicating...?”

Just like that, the fire in Thranduil's belly  kindled back to life, and the fresh bite on his hip throbbed pleasantly. Thranduil laughed breathlessly. “Obviously,” he said as Bard pressed a playful kiss to his neck and continued back down his chest. He tousled fingers in Bard's hair. “I'm quite the delicacy, or haven't you heard...?”

Bard grinned up at him, the spirit of passion rekindled in his eyes. “Are you now? I suppose I'll have to sample and decide for myself, won't I?”

He licked over the bite mark he had made and wasted  no time in tugging Thranduil's trousers down his hips and off the side of the bed to pool on the floor in a heap. Thranduil laughed at his impatience, but his voice soon caught on a groan when Bard  licked a long line up his thigh and his half limp erection stirred with renewed vitality.

“Your skin is so smooth and soft,” Bard purred, biting harmlessly at the inside of Thranduil's thigh. “I often wondered what you felt like under all that glittering silver and ice. How supple your skin might feel, how sweet you smelled, how much you might quiver and shake if I found all of the secret places that unmade you... I wondered if I could wrap your sighs around me and make a home inside your trembling heat.”

Thranduil couldn't contain the breathless sound of want that escaped him at that. His cock was stirring rapidly back to life and Bard was so close Thranduil could feel his breath, warm and moist on his overheating skin. “So get on with it then,” he ordered with all of the authority he could muster with Bard between his legs.

He threw his head back when Bard acquiesced and took him in a firm grip, licking a line across him  and covering him in wet heat . “Ai,” he breathed.  His back arched and his hands fisted and twisted in the sheets. Bard's mouth was perfection, an utter bliss he had only dreamed about, long ago when there was less pain coating his heart and his mind like ice.

Thranduil watched the shadows of flame from the sconces dance and flicker  against the soft canopy as Bard's mouth moved on him. One hand threaded through dark, soft locks, encouraging. “Ai, Bard...” He licked his lips and glanced down, nearly coming undone at the mere sight of his once-mortal bobbing surely up and down between his thighs. The knot in his stomach tightened and he tugged on Bard's hair, pulling him off with a wet sound and a growl of protest. “Come here,” he breathed, and pulled Bard up for a messy kiss that was reciprocated in earnest.

“I have waited for three hundred years,” he said breathlessly between kisses that made him dizzy, “if I must wait another moment for you, I will surely go mad. Fuck me this moment or face the direst of consequences.”

Bard nipped at his lips and ground their hips together roughly. He laughed, his eyes dark and full of promise. “Your wish is my command, my Lord Thranduil.”  He pulled back just enough to reach behind him and rummage in the drawer of a bedside table, and Thranduil laid back, stretching like a cat and watching him through dark lashes.

Bard seemed to find what he was looking for and turned back, eyeing Thranduil with a predatory and thorough once-over. “ Well?” Thranduil asked, raising a single brow expectantly. He was flushed and his breath still came uneven and heavy, and he was sure he painted a pretty picture. Bard seemed to agree.

He crawled back over Thranduil and hooked one of his pale, slender legs around his waist and leaned down to thoroughly claim his mouth once more.

Thranduil groaned into the kiss and started when cold fingers  brushed along the back of his thigh, trailing viscous wetness as they went. “Ai Bard, it's cold,” he complained.

Bard silenced him with a kiss and an apology. “It will warm with your body heat. Alas, mine is not enough, I'm afraid.”

Thranduil's breath caught when he felt the first brush of fingers against him, softly stroking and circling  against sensitive skin . He shuddered and clenched his muscles instinctively. “Where did you get lubricant,” he asked, and Bard laughed, distracted for a moment, and hid his face against Thranduil's chest. Thranduil frowned. “What?”

“It's hair slick,” Bard explained, still laughing softly. “And you talk too much for someone who will go mad if I do not fuck him this very instant.”

Thranduil huffed an annoyed breath and opened his mouth to speak, but any words were swallowed by a sharp inhale when Bard's first finger breached him and pressed, insistently,  _ in.  _ “A- _ ahh,”  _ he said distinctly. Bard chuckled and Thranduil gripped his arms, holding on to him for support.

“That's better,” Bard murmured. His voice was low again and thick with lust, and when he leaned down to press his lips and his tongue and his teeth against Thranduil's, the Elvenking whimpered, undignified and needy, against his mouth. Bard kept moving his finger, and added another after a moment, stretching him open. Thranduil kissed him like he was air itself.

He lost himself in the sensation of strong fingers  inside him. Bard stroked and caressed him from within, brushing against a hidden place that made him shiver and pant. He was quickly coming apart under the surety and the carefulness of it all, and Bard continued to kiss his lips, his face, his jaw. When his lips found Thranduil's neck again, his fingers found that spot as well, and Thranduil cried out breathlessly and arched. Bard growled. It was a sound that Thranduil was starting to find more arousing that he should.

Bard's teeth scraped dangerously over his skin as he mouthed at him greedily. He shifted and Thranduil felt the heavy weight of his cock against his leg, thick and turgid. “ I want you now,” Bard said, voice thick and barely restrained. His fingers tightened around Thranduil's hip on one hand, and on the other, they slid free of Thranduil's warm heat with one final press and stroke. “I want what you have, Elvenking. I want your body and I want your blood.”

He trembled against him and Thranduil held him close. He could feel the need coursing through Bard in the tightness of his muscles, in the way he shook with barely suppressed hunger. There was wetness against his neck that he knew to be saliva. He swallowed and liked the way it made Bard tense, but at the same time a feeling of dread crept over him.

“I would give you both,” he assured, “but I wish to know now if it will hurt.”

Bard kissed his neck and smoothed hands down his sides, tracing lightly over his aching desire. Thranduil inhaled, shaky. “I can make it painless. If you open your mind to me, my dear, I can even make it like bliss. Euphoria. I can make you feel things so strongly you will forget your own name.” He licked a line up Thranduil's throat from collar to chin.

Thranduil's brow furrowed and his mouth fell open as Bard continued to stroke him below. He took several unsteady breaths before answering, “As long as you do not allow me to forget yours.”

Bard grinned, and he felt it in the sharp points of his teeth against his skin. “Never.”

And then his whole body tightened as if drawn taut like a bowstring and he felt his skin pierced surely and evenly. He cried out wordlessly, and his mind told him he should be feeling agony, but a heavy fog settled over his thoughts, as if  by strange magic, rolling in from a distant place and wrapping him in a comforting weight.

He moaned at the first pull of blood. He could feel it like a wave, cresting and reaching, passing into Bard like a river passing into the ocean. He gasped and clutched onto Bard tighter, throwing a leg over his hips when he felt, distantly, a hand move under his thigh and position him.

He blinked up at the ceiling, the dancing flames hypnotic and enticing. He watched them for a moment and then gasped again, a deep sigh that followed the deep arch of his back as he felt breached. He couldn't tell how much. Bard wasn't going slow as he imagined he would, but then there was no need with Thranduil like putty in his hands. There was no tension or resistance in his muscles, except where he writhed beneath Bard, and the vampire was soon buried within him and moving deep and languid as he drank.

He pulled steadily out and with every deep rolling thrust, Thranduil felt like th e ocean wave being caressed and guided by the moon, pushed out to sea only to be drawn back in to the shore with every mouthful of blood that Bard pulled from him.

He drifted on the water, allowing himself to be moved. Tiny, breathless noises escaped him in time with every thrust. The heat in his veins had simmered and  felt like a soft boil, a background noise of arousal and pleasure that claimed no haste but possessed him as totally as Bard did at that moment.

He slid a hand into Bard's hair and traced lovingly over the shell of his ear, moaning as a wave of more intense heat made his legs tighten and his toes curl. He caressed the smooth skin behind Bard's ear and cradled him against his throat, revelling in the sensations and the emotions passing through him.

Bard pressed into him more arduously, the insistence of his hips like a claim of ownership. Thranduil found  that  he didn't mind. He didn't think he could ever mind being  owned by Bard, who possessed not in greed or corruption or force, but in love and compassion. Even now, with fangs in his throat and Thranduil's life in his hands, Bard claimed him like he was the most precious of treasures, like he was to be protected and worshipped and loved.

“Bard,” Thranduil whispered in awe. His back arched and he cried out as Bard rolled his hips against him. He had never felt this full or complete. He wondered if he could feel this way forever, if the Valar would grant him that.

Bard slid his fangs from Thranduil's throat reverently, gently. Thranduil could see blood on his teeth as he panted above him, still pushing into him with dedication and passion. This wasn't fucking, this was making love.

Thranduil brought him down to meet his lips and licked away the blood that lingered in his mouth without thinking twice.  Bard groaned.

He took Thranduil in his hand, the smooth skin taut against his fingers and wet with Thranduil's lust, spilled in small drops of anticipation. “Bard,” Thranduil breathed again, gripping him tighter and tilting his head back. His robe lay in a pool of red around him, still loose around his elbows and open, creating a dark frame for his silver hair and pale skin. Bard's hand stilled on his cock and his hips faltered as he took in the sight. He panted and his fangs seemed to gleam in the candle light.

“Once more,” he pleaded. “Once more and more intense this time. I'm going to make your body sing in harmony with mine, my love, my king. I'm going to fill you and empty you. Yes?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said, little more than a breath. He ached for Bard's touch, his hips were restless and his blood was humming, the fog still circling his mind like a gentle mist after a long night of rain. “Please,” he pleaded.

Bard kissed him once again and moved down to his jaw, nipped at the smooth, hairless skin. His own stubble scratched against him as went, and Thranduil thought he could get used to the feel of it. Lips trailed further away from his, down the other side of his neck, the whole and unbroken side, and Thranduil's heart fluttered in his chest. He took a deep breath and Bard paused, mouth open and giving him a moment to compose himself, and then he bit down, simultaneously shoving his hips back flush against Thranduil's.

Thranduil shouted as his back arched into a steep curve and Bard had to keep strong hands on his hips to keep him from sliding off him entirely. The fog in his mind seemed to burst and erupt into a thousand different colours and Thranduil's eyes flew open, staring nearly sightless at the ceiling as his body shook and orgasm ripped through him  with a  gale- force that made him wail and keen.

He gasped in deep breaths that didn't seem to reach his lungs and fisted his hands one in the robe and the sheets at his side, and one against Bard's back, nails digging and gripping. He felt the last of his seed pass from his untouched cock, but the  tremors and the spasms and the pleasure did not s ubside , and his back remained taut and curved, his thighs tight and ac h ing from the strain. His gasping  eased , but in its place was a breathlessness that made him dizzy, an inability to pull air or make a sound, so acute was this pleasure that set fire to his nerves. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, and the rush of blood in his ears was a deafening roar, like a river moving quickly over a cliff-side. He felt it passing between them still, Bard's mouth a constant, warm suction drawing it up and out of him and into his lover.

Bard was shaking and making desperate sounds against Thranduil, but it seemed a distant thing. The world was slow and far away, and Thranduil couldn't get enough air; his blood was emptying into a great reservoir and leaving him dry.

Thranduil gasped roughly, getting a breath between tight muscles and  nearly painful convulsions, but it wasn't enough. The spots in his eyes  spread and became too many and it all just became too much and not enough, and Thranduil fell from consciousness  as if from a great height .

  


The sconces were burning low when Thranduil opened heavy eyes.  He first became aware of a solid weight against him and smooth skin under his cheek. He shifted, and felt fingers in his hair, sifting through the long strands and making him feel safe and comforted. He shivered as a cold breeze passed over his naked back, and Bard pulled a heavy blanket over them both. Thranduil turned his head on Bard's chest so he could look up at him and Bard smiled. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.

Thranduil flexed his fingers and stretched his muscles. He winced when he felt the soreness in his abdomen and his thighs. He could feel the wound on his side as well, though it was mostly healed and re-bandaged again. There was no pain elsewhere though, not within him or at his neck where Bard had bit into  his flesh . He reached curious fingers up and rubbed over the untarnished skin of his throat. “I feel fine,” he answered. “Tired. A  touch  light-headed , but fine.”

Bard soothed the hair back from his face and traced over the point of his ear. Thranduil shivered for a different reason this time, and he was sure Bard noticed. “I took too much blood,” Bard worried aloud. “I should have been more careful. I did not mean to drain you like that.”

Thranduil kissed his chest where his face lie, and trailed his fingers through the soft dark hair that  covered it. “I told you, I'm fine,” he argued, voice returning to its normal haughty tone. “I would not have given you my blood if I did not trust you with it. You stopped where you did not need to, and I am lying beside you now, breathing like any living thing, so I assure you, I am fine.” He stretched his leg out again and draped it across Bard's, enjoying the way his muscles felt so used and worn out. “Besides,” he continued, “I have never come so hard and so long in my life that I lost consciousness from it, so I begrudge you nothing, bowman.”

Bard laughed. “I have not been called that in many years.”

“Hm. Well I have many more names for you that I have never spoken aloud. Perhaps we will have enough time now to make our way through them all.”

Bard made a content sound that rumbled through his chest and into Thranduil's ear. “Tell me some.”

Thranduil smiled. “There's no need to be hasty,  _ melethenin.  _ I will not indulge you all at once. I fear I would overwhelm you...”

Bard looked down at him with a raised brow. “Are you trying to say something, my lord?”

“Ai, not at all, I was merely trying to refrain from arousing you overmuch and making you swoon or something of the like.”

Bard ruffled his hair and Thranduil made an undignified sound and bit at his chest in retaliation. Bard laughed, and then became quiet, soothing back out the tangles he had created.

Finally, he glanced down at Thranduil, who watched him with an upturned face and gentle eyes. “Can we really have this?” he asked, a thread of uncertainty weaving into his voice. “Your people need you, and I fear I cannot join you at your side among them. They will not understand.”

Thranduil reached up to trace along his jaw with cool fingers. “They will understand what I ask them to. We can stand in solidarity against this thing that took you from me all those years ago. With you at my side, we stand a chance, and that, if nothing else, they must see. I will not have you part from me again, my darling bowman.” Bard smiled. “We can have this, yes. I will strike down any creature who dares stand in our way.”

Bard sighed and closed his eyes, relief slowing his fingers to gentle strokes against Thranduil's scalp. “An eternity, we have now. Are you sure you wish to be stuck with me for that long?”

Thranduil smiled. “There is no one I would rather be stuck with.”

They lie together in silence as the fire in the sconces burned down to nothing, and Thranduil felt a contentment that was as alien as the coldness of his lover, but his heart was warm in his chest and Bard was so real at his side. He fell asleep finally with a soft smile on his face and a peace in his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to all of the lovely people who have helped me with this work, I would also like to thank [Essie](http://www.essiefied.tumblr.com) and [mywatermellon](http://www.mywatermellon.tumblr.com)for letting me use Lymerien, their OC in this. Lym and Orelion are part of the Mirkwood Trash Squad, which is a thing you should definitely check out on tumblr. Background elves give me life. I'm looking forward to featuring more of these precious babes in part two.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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